Monday, 28 March 2016

The United
Nations refugee agency (UNHRC), the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) and
the Women’s Refugee Commission (WRC) released a joint report in January 2016 highlighting
the grave risks of sexual and gender based violence of women and girls in
Greece and FYR Macedonia in
November 2015.

The report noted that women and girls were among those
particularly at risk and required additional protection measures. I could not
agree with this report more after my experience of meeting Syrian and Afghan
women and girls at the Moira refugee camp in Lesvos Island. I was interested in the safety issue
of women, mainly widows who were travelling on their own without male family
members. There were so many of them, each with their own story of a different
group had robbed them of a husband. There was Assad’s bombs, rebels who had
attacked their homes and of course Isis.

I met Walaa on my
second day at the camp through
the aid of an Arabic interpreter, she had smiled shyly and agreed to share her
story with me. Pulling her hijab overforehead,
she shifted her three year old son from her right hip to the left. It had been
nearly six hours since she had joined the queue for registration with the UNHCR
for her new refugee identity papers. She fumbled in her coat pocket for the
numbered tickets she, her three children and her fourteen year old brother had
been handed when they had arrived at Moira camp, high up on a hilltop. They had
been cold, wet and in need of dry clothes after waves upon waves of the Aegean
sea had washed over them in the flimsy dinghy that had brought them from the
Turkish coast to the Greek Island of Lesvos. The smugglers who had charged
Walaa thousands of Euros for her family’s passage had promised the journey time
to be one and half hours.

That had
been the first lie. It had taken them four hours.

The second
lie had been about their possessions. All the travellers had boarded the dingy
with their paltry belongings in rucksacks and bags. A few metres into the sea
and everybody’s belongings had been dumped in the sea. ‘Unnecessarily weighing
the boat down’ had been the explanation.

Some of the
passengers had objected but Walaa had not. What was the worth of material goods
when her children’s lives were at stake? She had barely slept in the nights
running up to her sea voyage. Nightmares
had plagued her and she was terrified that her children would drown. As the
dingy had rocked violently with the waves, she had clutched her youngest in her
arms and kept her nine year old son and ten year old daughter on either side of
her. Her teenage brother was also her responsibility now that her mother,
sister and aunt had been granted asylum in Canada on the grounds of her
sister’s disability. They had wanted to take the teenage boy, a male companion,
but the Canadian authorities hadn’t allowed it on the grounds that young men
could not enter Canada. Now he was her responsibility.

I asked
Walaa how she had lost her husband.
Drawing her small son closer in her embrace, her voice was low. ‘He was
a taxi driver. He was driving five passengers in his car when a bomb dropped
right on top of the vehicle.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘There was nothing
left of my husband. He was unrecognisable.’

What did
she do after his death?

‘I had to leave Syria because I could not
survive on my own. I could not feed my children.’ Her voice wavered again as
she recalled this point in her life. As the Arabic was translated, I squeezed
her hand and she gave me a watery smile before straightening her shoulders to
carry on with her story.

‘I went to Turkey to live with my mother’s
family. I got a job in a restaurant as a waitress but then six months later my
female relatives were granted asylum in Canada. They had applied a long time
before I went to live with them. They wanted to go so they boarded the plane.
Me and my children and brother were left behind. I tried to make ends meet but
rent in Turkey is so expensive. I also had no one to look after my youngest
child when I was at work. That had been my mother’s job when she had been with
us.’

So she made
the decision to leave?

‘Yes. The
Syrian neighbours were leaving and so I decided to as well.’

But what
about the smugglers’ fee? How did she fund that?

‘My sister sold her gold earrings before she
left for Canada and gave me the money.’

And that
was enough?

Walaa
lowered her eyes. ‘And donations from people who came to the restaurant.’

Donations?

She kept
her gaze averted. ‘Yes, donations.’

I did not
push for further explanation of the donations. Perhaps the donations had been
given out of the kindness of the heart to a widow with children, or perhaps
she’s had to give something in return. Whatever the truth, Walaa was not
willing to expand on it.

What she
was willing to share however was the harassment she had faced on this journey from
single men who’d spotted a beautiful young woman with no male guardian.

‘They
pretend to help me on the journey; to lift my son, to hold my daughter’s hand.
But then they make it clear that they want more. It is better not to take the
offer of help. I can’t sleep at night. I am terrified that someone will try to
hurt me or my children. A woman is not safe even when she is with other
refugees fleeing war.’

"Many women
and girls travelling on their own are entirely exposed, deprived of their
family or community to protect them," Director of UNHCR's Bureau for
Europe, Vincent Cochetel said. "And even those traveling with family are
often vulnerable to abuse. Often they are not reporting crimes and thus not
receiving the support they need. Some women have even told us they have married
out of desperation." (report)

Aside from
the widows and the women travelling alone to join their husbands who made their
way to Germany earlier in the summer.

There was
the experience of Suha who was harassed in the camp by ‘strange men she didn’t
know’ to the degree that she was terrified to leave the children centre.
Cradling her five month old baby she was close to tears as she shook her head
and refused to make her way to the UN’s family compound for the night. The
compound was situated in the section of the camp where she was victimised.
Finally, it was agreed that she and her sister could remain in a tent next to
the children’s marquee for the night.

The report noted:
"Single women travelling alone or with children, pregnant and lactating
women, adolescent girls, unaccompanied children, early-married children–sometimes themselves with newborn babies–persons with disabilities, and elderly men and women are
among those who are particularly at risk and require a coordinated and
effective protection response."

I spent some time in January 2016 as a volunteer in Lesvos Island. It was an emotional experience which I would like to share with my readers. Below are posts and photos lifted from my facebook page.

Little baby girls sitting out in the cold at Moira camp, Lesvos Island.

This is Sham. I met her in the United Nations line for refugee papers. She fled Syria with her widowed mother and 16 year old sister.

I named him 'the boy who refused to smile'. No amount of chocolates could entice a curve on his lips. He was with his father and two older brothers. There is a story behind those haunted eyes: his mother was raped and killed by ISIS.

Photo below is with the three brothers and my sister Zainub Chohan.

Post 1: Have you ever denied water to a thirsty
person? I have. May God forgive me.

January 2016

Yesterday the boats arrived
one after the other and the refugees, cold and hungry, began to queue on the
fringe of the camp for their refugee paper that is now their new identity. The
paper will allow them to pass through European borders. Without them they do
not exist in official terms.
The queue is long and the average wait is twelve hours because the UNHCR has to
be thorough when they process the refugees; fingerprints, interview etc.
The camp is run by volunteers. Without them the refugees would have no dry
clothes to change into after their sea journey, no food and no water.

When the refugees arrived
in the morning and afternoon they were given rice and water by the volunteers.
Hours layer, as the sunlight disappeared and the biting cold of the night dug
in, the mood changed.
Babies could be heard crying.
Mothers made an effort to keep their older children closer to them in the
darkness of a Greek island hilltop which is the camp.
People shifted on their feet.
The Greek police who maintain order suddenly looker sharper. This is a force
that keep riot shields on hand to maintain that order.

Just after 6pm the kitchen
volunteers arrived with a big drum of hot rice pudding for the refugees. This
was part evening meal and part an attempt to provide warmth for the body.
We distributed it in paper cups and then the water bottles arrived.
As I tore up the plastic covering, another volunteer came running up.
'Don't! Stop! We can't give them the water.'
I looked at her in confusion. 'Why not? The refugees have been standing for
hours. They need water.'
'The Afghan line hasn't been given any food. There is nothing left for them and
so the water has to be given to the Afghans.'

You see there are two lines
in the camp. One is for the Syrians and the other is for the Afghans.
The Afghan refugees are the Hazara people whom the UN recognise as a persecuted
minority. You may have read about the popular Hazara character in Khaled
Hussaini's Kite Runner.

'OK,' I agreed.
'Watch the water,' she said. 'I'm going to get a farsi speaking interpreter to
explain to the Afghan line that unfortunately there is no more food and we only
have water.'
She disappeared and I stood watch over the bottles. Minutes later a child came
up and asked for a bottle. I shouldn't have given it but i gave it anyway. Next
a man came up. I shook my head and mouthed no. He gazed at me in surprise and I
averted my eyes. This was a man who had lost his country and home and I was
refusing to give him a bottle of water.
I kept my gaze away from the people I had only hours earlier greeted with a
smile and 'marhaba'.
They included the widows I had given charity money to and with whom I had shed
tears with when we had become overwhelmed with emotion.
'Hey.'
I looked up. It was one of the police officers.
'Take the water away from here if you are not going to give it.'
'What?' I glanced behind him at the line. Some of the refugees were looking at
me. They had realised the water was not for them.
'Take it away.'
The police officer didn't have to say anymore. I understood the situation. More
people would approach, it would get chaotic and even ugly.
I remembered the volunteer induction talk. 'The police want calm and order. If
it gets chaotic they will bring out the riot shields and hit the refugees until
they get back into line.'
I waved over some other volunteers and we carried the water away. I had to pass
by everyone in the queue and I kept my head down ...even when some of them
called out 'baby ...water.'

After
distributing the water to the Afghan line, I walked back to the Syrian line to
find more volunteers had arrived and were distributing water bottles and
cartons of orange juice.

Its all about the volunteers. Come. Make a difference.

Post 2: 'I was so
scared for my children'

January 2016 (photo: Zainub and Alaa)

My sister Zainub and I had just got out of bed
when her phone beeped. It was the south coast Lesvos whatsap group which
notifies volunteers of new boats arriving.It is crucial that volunteers meet the boats.
The refugees are always soaked from the waist down and in the January cold they
need to be given dry clothes and blankets. Hypothermia is a veryreal risk.The message gave the boat's location on the coast
and urged nearby volunteers to rush there. The coast volunteers work on shifts
throughout the day and night and patrol a given area.Zaiunb and I had decided that we would focus on
assisting within the camp rather than the coast as we had not hired a car.'The boat is 2 minutes away by car,' Zainub said.
'Let's go help. We can get a taxi.'I nodded. Our hotel was on the coast line. We could
be there in minutes.Having dressed as fast as we could in jumpers and
wellies, we ran down to the hotel reception and asked for a taxi.'It's coming,' the lovely Greek receptionist
informed us.'Thanks.' Two minutes later, as a typical Londoner
not used to waiting, I inquired about the taxi.The receptionist gave me an odd look. 'It' coming.'Another two minutes later, hopping from foot to
foot I demanded to know where my taxi was.The receptionist looked at me in bewilderment and
threw her hands in the air in that unique Greek way. 'Itssaaaa cominngggg.'We all burst out laughing.Four minutes later the taxi arrived and we
clamoured in, pointing ahead at the coast line. 'Drive!'The driver looked at me in confusion. Life is not
like the movies. Taxi drivers don't just drive just because you demand it.'Where?' he asked.Zainub studied the boat's location on the whatsap
message and identified the hotels running parallel on the coast.'Princess apartments. We want princess apartments.'The driver shrugged and started the car ....slowly.'Go! Go! Go!' I urged, jumping like a child on the
back seat.I noticed the dirty sideways look he gave me and
decided to sit back. It would not help to be kicked out of the car.Two minutes later we pulled up on the road close to
a group of about 50 refugees and some volunteers.The doctor from the Netherlands who had given us
the volunteer's talk on how to prevent hypothermia was seeing to a woman who
had broken her foot on the journey. The doctor was urging her to go to a
hospital via an Arabic translator but she point blanked refused to be separated
from her five children all under 12.

I looked around and noticed Scott, a Canadian
volunteer walking around with a little girl who looked about 2 years old. She
was wrapped in a green blanket which reminded me of Kermit the Frog. I smiled
at the little girl but she did not respond. Some of the children refuse to make
eye contact after the terror of their journey.

I asked Scott where her parents were.'I found her walking around by herself calling
"papa". Her father is in the medical van being seen to. I've been
holding her since.'I took out a Quality Street chocolate from my bag
and held it in front of her. Her eyes flickered slightly. I asked Scott if I
could hold her to feed the chocolate and he handed her over to me.Settling down the ground, I unwrapped the orange
cream and then pulled one of her arms out of the blanket. She took it and began
to eat it slowly. As the sugar hit her, she met my eyes for the first time and
allowed a small curve to her lips.Zainub came over and I passed the little girl to
her. We began to play peekaboo and the curve turned into a small smile.Just then a car pulled up with Tariq Jahan and two
of his cousins. They were driving along the coast dropping water bottles for
all the refugees. You may remember Tariq from the 2011 riots. He is the father
whose son was killed in Birmingham. Tariq is credited with bringing calm to the
riots when he spoke on TV about his loss.They dropped the water and sped off to the next
boat.Another volunteer, Marian from Germany, walked over
to us with the silver foil and a pair of tights. She had run out of children's
hats and was improvising. She placed the foil over the little girl's head and
secured it with the crotch of the tights. It was vital that the little girl did
not lose anymore body heat after spending three hours on the boat (each boat
has its own journey time depending on the sea conditions. It should be 1.5
hours but is always more).'Where are her parents?' Marian asked.'Her father is in the medical van,' I replied. 'Not
sure about the mother.'Marian gave me a concerned look. 'The medical van
has left. Four more boats have arrived near the airport and the medics are
needed there.'As we stood under the winter sun, the most awful
thoughts flew through my mind. Where was her father? What if he hadn't survived
the journey? What if she is now an orphan?I picked up the little girl and Zainub and I walked
through the small crowd to see if we could find out what had happened to him.
Suddenly the little girl's face broke out into a huge smile as a man in his
thirties hobbled over to us on an injured leg.'Papa.'I cannot describe the relief I felt.Her name is Alaa and she has a 4 year old sister
Suha, and a 6 year old brother Mohammed. They are travelling with their father
Yamen who steered the boat when the smugglers jumped ship.As we stood around in a small group waiting for the
UN coach to take them all to the camp, some of the other refugees jokingly
referred to him as 'the Captain'. Yamen laughed with them and then suddenly out
of the blue, tears welled up in his eyes. 'I was so scared for my children.'Alaa, Suha and Mohammed's mother died 3 months ago.
She was killed by a sniper in Halib, Syria. Just like that a single bullet
snuffed out her life and left three small children motherless.

I have met so many widows and widowers travelling
with their small children. There is no time to grieve for dead husbands and
wives and the loss and trauma is buried deep within them.The only thing that matters to these refugees is
safety for their children.All we can do as volunteers is help them on their
journey with dry clothes, blankets, food and water as they make their way to
the European countries offering refuge.

Post 3. Wrapped up for the night in United Nations blankets with bin bags of clothes for mattresses.

January 2016

These two little cuties were all wrapped up in blankets to spend the night in the cold air. Women and children are allowed to sleep inside the UN's family compound, but I could not persuade their mother to leave the line for registration even though she would not be seen until the next day.

Post 4: This is Saum.

January 2016

It was
raining hard today and at about 11am Saum and his mother came into the
volunteer tent to seek shelter. He was wet and cold. We dried him with some
tissues, gave him a blanket and placed him on a chair. He happily munched on
two digestive biscuits.

His mother told me her story. Her husband has
already reached Germany and she is following him there ...alone ...with three children in towe.She talked of the same route that all the refugees
mention with excitement in their voices.'We will go to Athens on the ferry and then bus and
wall to Macedonia and then all the way to Germany.'She is a woman on her own and I knew she was
carrying some money for her trip which she said was enough for the tickets she
needed to buy en route. I gave her some money anyway. A woman alone with her
three children crossing borders cannot stick to a budget. We all travel with a
little extra and so should she.At 7pm this evening we went to the port to
distribute energy bars and water bottles for the refugees boarding the ferry to
Athens. We saw her in the queue and she waved to us excitedly. Saum seemed to
recognise me too...or maybe it was the Quality Street chocolate I handed him
which encouraged the smile. Who knows?She hugged me then, thanking me for the money again
and again.When they all boarded the ferry and we waved
goodbye, all the women volunteers I was with felt tearful. It was like saying
goodbye to family even though we had only known the refugees for a few hours.
It’s weird to feel such emotion for complete strangers but you feel it anyway.
The thoughts go through your mind: Will they make it? I hope they make it!
Please don't let the Europeans shut the gates! The worst is behind them ...they
have reached safety now.

About Sufiya

Sufiya is the author of 'Secrets of a Henna Girl' published by Puffin Books.
She spends all her time writing stories and visiting schools to talk about her books.
Sufiya set up the BIBI Foundation to encourage teenagers from under-privileged and diverse backgrounds to visit the Houses of Parliament and learn more about the democratic process.